


Under The Weather

by Fedora Of Adorableness (TheTimelessChild0)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Diarrhea, Episode: s02e16 Under the Radar, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Peter Burke, Sick Neal Caffrey, Sickfic, poop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimelessChild0/pseuds/Fedora%20Of%20Adorableness
Summary: Neal caught something in the dry docks, even thought he hadn't beenfishing...
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. A Freaky Cold

**Author's Note:**

> takes place in the middle of the episode, before the explosion.

Neal stood up, yawning. As soon as he put one foot in front of the other, his head started spinning. He grabbed the wall, and waited for it to pass. 

_ That was weird.  _ He’d had his share of side effects from drinking, or that stuff Nurse Ratchet gave him at the Howser Clinic, that had him peeing litres. But never had standing up at normal speed given him a head rush...As much as he wanted to call Moz, Caffrey knew paranoia was not called for in this instance; what  _ was  _ called for was a trip to the bathroom. 

* * * * * * *

  
  


The usual post-piss shiver lasted longer this time, and seemed to permeate through the con man’s upper body. Neal grabbed his left arm, squeezing it. There were some pangs of pain, like a mosquito bite on the inside, almost as if something was biting its way out. But the weakness in the muscle pointed to an autoimmune reaction. He shook both arms, as the sensation spread. He chalked it up to pins and needles from sleeping on his arm by accident. 

Neal decided to have an extra nutritious breakfast, with bacon and honey on toast instead of jam, and a small bowl of oatmeal. He washed it down with orange juice. As soon as it made contact with his stomach juices, something twinged further down in his midsection. His stomach gurgled, to protest the task of digesting the liquid.

He leaned forward. “Ow,” 

Caffrey’s head slunk further down towards the table, suddenly getting very heavy. As he picked it up with his left hand, he felt the heat covering it. 

He put an ice pack on his neck and got dressed. 

  
“Some  _ freaky  _ cold,” he murmured.


	2. Go Home!

Neal exited the elevator, carefully sipping a bottle of water. He didn’t want to upset his stomach again, but liquids could flush out whatever was there, that _shouldn’t_ be.

“Get a good night’s sleep?” Burke checked. The events of the previous day weren’t exactly prime lullaby material.

“I thought I did. Doesn’t explain why I feel like a diabetic ferret,” Neal snarked, putting his hat atop the Socrates bust, running his fingers through his hair exhaustedly. The second the hand made contact with Caffrey’s forehead, he felt sweat. He began scratching it away. 

“Too many blankets?” Peter noted, curiously. His consultant stared. The agent pointed at the sweat. Neal wiped it off quicker. 

“No, just slept on my stomach. Threw myself to bed last night,” he sighed. 

When his handler wasn’t looking he dabbed some more water on his neck. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Neal managed to ignore the vague humidity of his desk area in favour of FBI casework. At least, until his intestines gave a loud signal that could not be mistaken. 

He got out of his seat and hurried to the bathroom. 

The subsequent forgery of a Jackson Pollock painting, with a pinch of Dali’s surrealism, had Caffrey wondering exactly how much alcohol was in those drinks Adler gave him. After all, he could find no other explanations for how his body got in this state. He hadn’t eaten nearly enough. 

* * *

Neal skipped lunch, nibbling on some saltines instead.

Of course, that required more water, more pooping, and eventually peeing. 

It was 1:30 in the afternoon when it struck. He’d gone during one of the last ablutions, but that was not enough.

He chose to ignore it, so Peter wouldn’t get too suspicious.

Not only was that easier said than done, Peter had no intention whatsoever of ignoring what he was seeing. 

He was mildly curious as to why his CI suddenly needed to be taught to listen to his body. 

_\- Go to the bathroom!_ he texted to Neal. 

Neal rolled his eyes and replied: 

_\- I’m not 5._

_\- You’re doing a potty dance_ , Peter pointed out.

  
Caffrey surrendered and marched off. 

* * * * * * * * * *

It didn’t take long for Neal to need to switch _receptacles_ , as he finished his pee. Whatever wanted out, didn’t like the _smaller_ exit. 

It was mind-boggling how saltines turned into lumps of _pudding_ , rather than hamster pebbles.

* * *

The process was relatively exhausting for Caffrey. As soon as he stood up, the dizziness made a reappearance, and this time, leaning on something didn’t help. He washed his hands, and put more water around his face. 

His head throbbed, but not entirely painfully. More like his brain was fighting its way out of his skull. He leaned on the wall next to the sink, breathing heavily. Then, just as his entire upper body began to lose its strength, Neal slid his way along the wall and sat down underneath the air vent. 

\-------------------------------

He’d only been gone for about 3 minutes, when Peter walked out of his office, wondering where he was. 

“Bathroom,” Jones informed him. 

“ _Still_?” Burke replied, puzzled. 

“Again. He’s been in and out of the can 5 times today,” Clinton registered his equal astonishment. 

Peter narrowed his eyes subtly. He didn’t really like the idea of judging a person, least of all Neal who was self-conscious about his _image_ at the office already; for the frequency of which they use the restroom. But with how the consultant had looked earlier in the day, and the fact he’d tried so _damn_ hard to avoid drawing attention to his breaks, something was up. There was something wrong, to make Neal have to go so often, it made him feel _embarrassed_...

He sighed, and walked out to check on Caffrey. 

* * *

He knocked on the door, not wanting to make the man freeze up during.. _that_. 

“Neal?” 

Neal made a tired noise, confirming his existence in the room. Peter opened the door. 

Immediately to his left, he spotted the con man. He was sitting on the floor, his eyes barely open. His face was covered in sweat and his tie wet. Presumably, it had been used to cool him down, clean his face or _both_.

“Peter,” Neal smiled, not entirely surprised that his handler went snooping for him.

“You bring a toolbox?” he muttered, looking at Peter with one and a half eye.

Burke looked at him, questioning the request. 

“To fix the AC,” he explained.

Peter shook his head, both at the feeble attempt to cool oneself with a fan all the way up on the ceiling, and again at Caffrey, showing the poor guy his _empty_ hands.

He sat down next to Neal on the floor, sighing in sympathy. He took off Neal’s jacket, and adjusted the crumpled collar of his shirt, undoing a button. Finally, he put the man’s hair back behind his ears. 

“I think your bad night is turning into a bad _day_ ,” he remarked with a kind smile. 

“Well, it may or may not have started in the morning,” Neal admitted, looking sideways guiltily.

Peter made no extravagant expression at this comment, he just nodded and took off his own tie, soaking it in the sink. He put it around Neal’s neck, and lifted Caffrey up by his arms. 

“Come on, up you get,” he encouraged. Burke put his hands on Neal’s shoulder, clutching his upper arms, to keep him from dropping back down. 

“Now; you listen here, _cowboy_ . You...are _sick_ . You’re gonna go home. I’m gonna call Mozzie to pick you up _right now_ , and I don’t care how many traffic laws he’ll have to break to get here fast enough,” Peter stated firmly, showing immense worry. 

Neal chose to protest the second there was silence. 

  
“ _Look,_ Neal. To do your job well, you have to _feel_ well. You’re not well; come back when you are,” Burke clapped his shoulder, and proceeded to lead him out of the bathroom.


	3. Neal Gets The Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking And Entering: fun for all species, big and small.

Peter had Jones grab an extra chair, and put it next to Caffrey’s, so Neal had somewhere to lie down. Diana fetched the thermometer, which Burke put inside Caffrey’s ear. 

“103. Jeez, you’re  _ burning _ up,” Peter griped worriedly. He grabbed Neal’s bottle of water.

“Oh no no no no, no more water,  _ nothing  _ is going in,” Neal objected.

“It’s to swallow this fever reductant,” the agent clarified, holding out a small white pill. 

“Do you have something for the wild animal clawing its way through my intestines?” he groaned. 

“Must be  _ some _ bug you’ve got,” Peter noted, massaging Neal’s abdomen. Neal stretched, savouring the soothing gesture, and inadvertently released a roaring salute from his behind. 

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” he apologised, covering his face.

“That’s okay, I’m just glad you’re in less pain,” Burke chuckled, grabbing the hand in front his partner’s face, squeezing it fondly.

* * * * * * * *

Mozzie ran in, ignoring the Suits staring at him. The reason for their intense observation was because he was wearing an EMT uniform, holding a phone emitting a siren in one hand, and clasping a gurney on wheels in the other. 

“My name is Dr Haversham. I’m here for my patient,” he introduced himself. 

“Everyone here already knows who you are, Mozzie,” Diana reminded him, incredulous.

“Humour me in this dark time,” Moz imbibed gravelly. 

“Just move me, so this nut job can get me home!” Neal whined. 

Peter obeyed, with Jones’ assistance. 

“Before you go; is there or isn’t there a stolen ambulance outside?” Burke checked. He did not want an arrest to delay them. 

“It’s just till I get him into the back of the cab,” Haversham assured them. 

* * *

“I researched the contents of what Adler addled you with. It shouldn’t cause such a high fever,” Mozzie noted, swerving in and out of traffic. 

“No, I  _ highly _ doubt it’s the reason behind all this,” Neal muttered, clutching his stomach.

“Okay; what are your other symptoms?” Dr Haversham inquired. 

“My head feels like my brain’s about to Prison Break out of my skull, my arms have grown invisible mites chomping away at various nerve endings, and...that’s about it. Could you speed up? I think all my organs are still in the right place,” he recited, grumbling sarcastically in tune with his grumbling gut. 

“I’m trying to find all the right shortcuts...were you about to say something else?” Moz replied, checking. 

“What? No,” Neal commented, bending his knees up, to shield from a volcanic  _ eruption _ .

“Well, you had an unusually long pause after you said “and”, I could only assume the list went on,” 

“ _ Nope _ , that’s it,” Caffrey lied. 

“You’re lying. What’s wrong?!” Mozzie fretted.

“Nothing. Yet.” Neal spat, anxiously. 

“Neal, we’ve been friends for 8 years, you know I won’t laugh. Is it an itch, ‘cause I got a lot of creams with me?” he mentioned. 

“No, but thanks for reminding me that I have to pee again,” Caffrey shifted, wincing.

“We’re almost home. Stop stalling and just let it out,” 

“Yeah, not the best choice of words...okay. It’s,  _ flatulence _ ..and,” Neal took a deep breath. He wondered what was turning his face red; the fever spiking or embarrassment. “Soft stool,” he admitted.

Moz nodded, utterly nonplussed.

“How soft?” 

  
“Excuse me?” Neal groused. 

“Bristol stool chart,” the ‘cabbie’ clarified.

“Irrelevant. It was pudding-y,” Caffrey frowned, shrugging.

“Hmm...that points to an invasive species,” the conspiracy theorist theorised. “Have you been eating my rat cheese?”

“No, because you keep calling it that,” Neal snarked, rolling his eyes. Even without the name, blue cheese hardly resembled edible matter. 

“That rules out bacterial or viral. Guess that leaves one thing; parasite,” Moz concluded.

“WHAT?!!!” he sat up  _ nearly  _ straight in his seat, uncertain whether or not he  _ wanted  _ to shit himself. 

“Certainly a unique one...oh, don’t worry, dude. It hasn’t dehydrated you, which is a good sign,” 

“Yeah, well, the multiple water bottles I’ve chugged might take part of the credit for that,” Neal mentioned.

“At the very least, it’s low maintenance. Let’s get you home to your porcelain salvation, ‘kay, sulky?” 

A whimper sounded from the pitiful pickpocket.


	4. Peter Burke, M.D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Administering treatment.

Neal and Mozzie limped up the door to June’s extravagant mansion. Moz opened the door, as his friend had his hands full with  _ holding on _ . The parasite was in his gut, but someone forgot to pass the message along to his  _ kidneys _ .

“You’re early,” June remarked, walking to the door. She spotted the wreck that was her tenant, hunched over awkwardly. 

“Oh, my...Neal, are you hurt?” she cooed, putting an arm around the con man.

“Nope,” Neal replied, panting. “Ow,” he winced. “Just  _ hurting _ ,”

June noticed he was squirming, and the hand that was not on his stomach, was holding his crotch. 

“You can use my bathroom on this floor, it’s closer,” she offered.

“His fever is at 103; he needs one closer to  _ bed _ . Lift, woman!” Mozzie urged. 

They began to traverse up the steps. Neal grasped after the handle, crossing his legs. 

“Could we hurry this up? I’m in serious danger of painting this carpet one of  _ two _ colours,” he whined.

* * *

June left the pair alone in the penthouse, while she got some nice tea to help him sleep.

Neal managed to grab the wall once inside, leaning on it for a moment. When Mozzie approached him again, he batted him away. 

“I’m not an invalid, I can stand up on my own,” he insisted, a statement quickly disproved when his knees buckled, and he was forced to lean on the table, curling his right leg around his left. 

There was a cane hidden among the many suits in the closet, so Moz handed it to Neal, who sprang forward with it, stepping a few extra times to salvage his dignity; what was left of it, anyway. 

As soon as he reached his destination, Caffrey decided to save time by sitting down on the toilet right away. 

Wiping the sweat off his face for the nth time, he discovered he felt much better with one internal cavity emptied. And some exploratory squeezes, revealed the other was already empty. Until further notice...

* * * * * * * * 

Neal got put in bed in just his underpants, while Mozzie took his temperature again. This time, it was 104,7. 

June helped him sip the tea when Peter called. 

_ How is he?  _ He queried, sounding almost parental.

_ Good news is, I got him in bed, and his bladder got taken care of, so he can get some more fluids and rest lightly,  _ Mozzie stated.  _ Bad news; his fever is up. All evidence points to a parasite; I’ll know which one next time he defecates. _

This answer shed some light on what exactly Neal was doing in the bathroom when the fever spiked the first time. At least his clothes hadn’t gotten moist with urine- Only sweat.

_ ‘kay, I’ll leave you to that. Make sure the tea is with honey, it’s been known to soothe stomachs, _ Peter requested.

Moz checked with June. It had apparently been melted into the beverage already, due to its supposed soporific effect. 

  
_ 2 birds with one stone _ .


	5. Information

Neal woke up with a twinge in his gut. Not entirely surprising, given his _condition_. He limped to the bathroom, and released...well, he struggled to find another word but rabbit poos. They were much bigger than those of a rabbit of course, but the small lumps still reminded him of a vegan diet. Which he was at least a few hamburgers and a _Croque_ _monsieur_ away from. The positive was it meant it was growing firmer.

There was a knock at the door. 

“Are you pooping?” a scratchy light voice inquired.

“I have a parasite in my colon, of course I’m pooping,” he snarked back.

“Don’t flush, I need a sample to diagnose your unwanted houseguest,” Moz requested.

“By all means,” Neal agreed, swiftly leaving once he was thoroughly cleaned.

“I see the tea worked,” Dr Haversham noted as he scooped the poop.

  
“I thought it tasted like medicine. Smooth...like my bowels,” he laughed.

* * *

The prescribed antidote to shoo the organism out, was an antibiotic that tasted like soap. So, it was washed down with a red beverage.

It tasted like fruit juice, so Neal didn’t question it. Then he fell asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Neal woke up feeling a sharp pain in his nether regions. Given the turbulent tummy of the last few days, he assumed that was the culprit. But this theory was swiftly disproven when he sat up, feeling both cold and wet. Looking down, it was made clear that he had peed himself. He put a hand on his forehead, not to check temperature; rather wallow in self-pity. As if he hadn’t been worn out enough by his temperamental bodily functions...it occured to him that the stinging pain was in the apparatus responsible for the moisture.

Rubbing his eyes with the hand not damp with his urine- he searched his penthouse for an explanation. It too, metastasised as a bottle of Kool-Aid.

_Great. The one time he doesn’t spy on me, is the one time I’d welcome it..._ Caffrey sighed, getting out of his uncomfortable bed/sofa, scouring the apartment for his bathrobe.

Apparently, superhuman memory came with superhuman hearing, as the gentle patter of his feet woke his babysitter, Moz.

“Don’t shoot! He’s unarmed!” he yelped, assuming the worst in his insomnia.

  
“Morning,” Neal greeted, hardly fazed in his experience. “Seen my robe anywhere?” he inquired. Haversham handed it to him, looking at his crotch and subsequently the sofa, both stained.

The patient in question blushed, covering himself with one hand, the other going to his neck. Clean pj’s would’ve been better, but oh well.

“Guess I should’ve thought of that before I went to bed, huh?” the con man quipped.

“You barely drank anything, though...” Mozzie murmured, confused.

“I’ll drink all the wine I have in the house, _medicinally_...once I’ve showered,” he certified. “Oh, and toss out the Kool-Aid, I’m allergic; a fact that somehow escaped your keen eye,”

When he returned, having changed into his silky pyjamas for a day of dignified pursuits, the couch was already being vigorously scrubbed by his friend.

“What do you say we pretend this never happened?” he suggested.

“Already forgotten. Symbolically of course,” It was agreed upon.

The End.


End file.
